The blue glow of the screen sliced through the darkness of the study at 2:47 AM. Lu Chenzhou's hands were steady, as steady as if he were disarming a bomb's detonator. He retrieved the old-model tablet from the Faraday bag, his fingertips feeling the cold touch of its casing. When he plugged the connecting cable into the port of the offline notebook, it made a precise *click*. Only these two machines were in the room—one physically isolated, the other never connected to the internet. The city outside the window had not yet fallen asleep; the white noise of traffic rolling over the elevated highway seeped through the double-glazed glass, becoming the only background sound in this silence. He pressed Enter. The decryption script began to run. The progress bar crept slowly up the screen, like a hibernating snake. Lu Chenzhou's breathing was pressed flat, each deliberate inhalation and exhalation stretched to five seconds. But his gaze was nailed to the screen, his pupils reflecting the flickering characters. His ears, however, were wide open—the slight hum of the elevator operating in the hallway, the crisp clatter of keys from a neighbor returning late at night, the faint hiss of changing airflow from the air conditioning vent. These sounds automatically sorted and categorized themselves in his mind, marking the boundaries of the safety window. The patrol interval for surveillance was twenty-three minutes. He still had seventeen. The low hum of the notebook's fan mixed with the faint heat escaping from the cooling vent. The air carried the uniquely sweet, scorched smell of old circuit boards. A faint twitch began at the corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye, subtle, like a broken guitar string buried beneath the skin. He ignored it. The index finger of his right hand unconsciously tapped the edge of the desk—once, twice, three times—a rhythm he used back in the interrogation room to stay alert. Now, he used it to fight against another kind of imprisonment. The progress bar reached eighty-seven percent. He recalled the set of *Criminal Technology Yearbooks* in Shen Yan's study. Hardcover with gilt spines, arranged as neatly as specimens. Gu Zhixing had allowed him to take a few "irrelevant personal items" as "behavioral analysis references." That set of yearbooks was on the edge of the list, and so was the tablet. Too clean. Clean like bait deliberately placed there. Lu Chenzhou hadn't touched the yearbooks then, only taking the tablet and a few notebooks. Now, this tablet lay in his palm, its casing cold, a slight dent on the edge—very old, not something a person like Shen Yan would use long-term. Ninety-nine percent. The screen darkened for an instant, then lit up again. A partition that had never appeared in the system drive list hung quietly at the end of the file explorer. The label was empty. Capacity displayed as 2.4GB. Lu Chenzhou clicked on it. Inside, there was no complex folder structure, only a compressed file with a string of garbled code for a name. He extracted it. The password was the third set he tried—the date of Shen Yan's mother's passing, plus the last four digits of Shen Yan's university student ID. The archive expanded, revealing its contents: dozens of PDF scans, hundreds of webpage screenshots, and one text file. He opened the text file first. Only one line of text, in 12-point Song typeface, centered on the screen: 「They are still watching. Be careful.」 Lu Chenzhou closed the file. His heart slammed heavily against his ribcage once before he forced it back into place with willpower. He clicked on the first PDF. It was a scan of a newspaper clipping, the paper yellowed, the edges frayed. The headline was printed in an old-fashioned typeface: 「‘11·3’ Accident Investigation Report for Spark Chemical (Internal Draft for Solicitation of Comments)」. The date was seven years ago. The accident summary section read: Pipeline leak triggered a flash explosion, resulting in three deaths and twelve serious injuries. Direct economic losses... His gaze skipped over the numbers, scanning downward. The casualty list. Name, job type, injuries, disposition. Reading line by line was like reviewing a silent army. Until the end of the list, the "Remarks" column. There, a few lines of small characters were handwritten in red ink, the handwriting scribbled, the ink bleeding into the paper fibers: 「Li Guohua (Pipeline Worker, Missing). His work badge (No. SH-0743) and clothing fragments found at the scene. Confirmed by family. Body not recovered. Treated as deceased.」 A red pen had drawn a circle around that name. Very forcefully, the paper surface was torn. Lu Chenzhou's body froze. The sounds in the room suddenly receded into the distance. The hum of His case file. That key witness. That pipeline worker who was "already deceased" so his testimony couldn't be cross-examined. Among the evidence presented by the police back then, there was a photo of a work ID badge, the number was also SH-0743. They said the body was vaporized at the blast's epicenter, only these fragments remained. Lu Chenzhou had requested a DNA comparison back then; the application was denied. Reason: insufficient necessity, and the family had already confirmed. Now, the same name, the same number, appeared in the accident report secretly collected by Shen Yan. Circled in red pen. Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. In the darkness, those numbers and letters did not disappear; instead, they grew clearer. SH-0743. He opened his eyes again and clicked on the next file. It was a scan of a forum screenshot, the page design crude, like an old-style BBS from over a decade ago. The post title: "A Few Questions Regarding the Spark Chemical Accident." The poster was anonymous, the timestamp showed eight months ago—three months before Shen Yan's death. The post content listed several inconsistencies in the accident report: discrepancies in casualty numbers, missing pipeline maintenance records, altered eyewitness testimonies... There were very few replies, only four or five. One of them read: 「Be careful, OP. Don't dig too deep into Li Guohua's case. His family moved away later, heard they got hush money. No one knows where they live now.」 Another reply below it, posted two months later: 「OP, are you still there? I found out a little about Li Guohua's hometown, I'll DM you.」 The screenshot ended there. No follow-up. Lu Chenzhou closed the image and opened the next PDF. It was a scan of land acquisition documents, Party B was Spark Chemical, Party A was "City Investment Group Subsidiary Third Branch." The signing date was six months before the accident. He flipped to the last page, the signature block. Representative signature for Party B: Shen Moqing. The official seal was the Shen Group. His fingertip hovered over the touchpad. The air in the study seemed to have thickened. At the edge of the desk lamp's halo, dust drifted slowly. Lu Chenzhou could hear his own heartbeat, thump, thump, pounding against his eardrums. He lifted his head and glanced at the smoke detector in the corner—that was also one of the cameras. Gu Zhixing's people might be watching from the other end, seeing him just sitting in front of the computer "organizing materials." Could they see the screen's reflection? Probably not. The angle was deliberately adjusted. But what if? He still had nine minutes. Deep breath. Push the emotions down, into his stomach, compress them into a cold lump of iron. Then continue. Most of the following files were newspaper clippings and archived online articles, spanning from the year of the accident to the present. Shen Yan seemed to have systematically collected all publicly reported information, even including some discussion posts from local forums. Among them was an article from the supplement of a city newspaper three years ago, mentioning the redevelopment project of the former Spark Chemical site. In the photo from the project launch ceremony, Shen Moqing stood in the center of the front row, smiling, shaking hands with municipal leaders. The article used a subheading: "Phoenix Rising from the Ashes, Old Industrial Zone Radiates New Vitality." Shen Yan had written a few words in pencil beside this passage, very small, almost illegible: "Dancing on the ruins." Lu Chenzhou closed all windows. He repacked the tablet into the Faraday bag and tightened the seal. The data on the offline laptop had already been backed up to that tiny physical encryption USB drive—the size of a fingernail, metal casing, which he had hidden in advance inside the pen cap's compartment. Now, besides the original old case materials, the USB drive contained an additional 2.4GB folder. He checked the time. Two minutes and fourteen seconds left until the estimated patrol window. Enough. Morning light filtered through the blinds, cutting alternating stripes of light and shadow on the desk. Lu Chenzhou sat at the boundary of light and shadow, the cold glow of the laptop screen illuminating half his face. In the encrypted email inbox lay a message sent by Gu Zhixing at three in the morning. The subject line was concise to the point of being cold: "Revisions Regarding the 'Shen Yan Abnormal Behavior Analysis Report'." He clicked it open. The body text was standard business language, polite and thorough. "Mr. Lu: The analysis in the first two parts of the report is in-depth and logically rigorous, demonstrating your professional competence. Mr. Shen recognizes this." Reading this, Lu Chenzhou's finger paused on the touchpad for a moment. He knew the pivot was coming. Indeed. " Lu Chenzhou opened the attached PDF. On the screen, the twelve pages he had written last night—covering "elder influence" and "past information stimulation"—were slashed from beginning to end with glaring red strikethroughs. Those red lines were like knife wounds, slicing across the black-and-white text. A small annotation beside them read: 「This section consists of baseless speculation and may mislead the investigation.」 His breath hitched for a moment. His heart thumped heavily in his chest, once, then again. The taste of rust rose from deep in his throat. He stared at those red lines for ten seconds. The cold, steady light of the screen reflected in his pupils. Then, he moved the mouse and clicked "Reply." The sound of his fingertips tapping the keyboard was especially clear in the silence. *Tap. Tap tap.* Each keystroke was precise and restrained. 「Attorney Gu: Feedback received. Revised version reviewed. Acknowledged shortcomings in consideration. Will strictly adhere to this finalized version for the report. Subsequent investigation will focus more on analyzing the deceased's individual behavior.」 After typing this line, his finger hovered over the send button. The city outside the window was beginning to stir, distant car horns faintly audible. The light and shadow from the blinds slowly shifted, crawling up his wrist. The faint warmth of the light band on his skin contrasted with the coolness emanating from the screen. He couldn't stop here. He withdrew his finger, returned to the end of the main text. After the sentence expressing compliance, he started a new line and added a seemingly casual inquiry: 「Additionally, while reviewing Young Master Shen Yan's past materials, I noticed he may have shown interest in certain local historical incidents (such as the old industrial district redevelopment, old factory accidents, etc.). Should such information be mentioned in the report? If so, what degree of detail is appropriate?」 He read it silently three times. This sentence had to be like a stone thrown into a deep pond—not too large, startling the waterfowl; nor too small, disappearing without a trace. It needed to sound like a dutiful consultant confirming vague boundaries within a professional scope. "Historical incidents." Broadly defined. "Old factory accidents." Vaguely directed, but enough to make those in the know feel a chill. He pressed send. The progress bar crawled slowly. Sending… 10%… 50%… His gaze never left the screen, his ears capturing every sound. The low hum from the central air conditioning vent. The vibration of the refrigerator compressor starting up. Outside the hallway, the dull rumble of a cleaning cart's wheels rolling over the carpet. The soft chime indicating successful email delivery sounded. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The afterimage of the red strikethroughs lingered on his retinas, overlapping with the name "Li Guohua"—circled in red pen at the end of the casualty list he saw on Shen Yan's tablet last night. One was speculation erased by authority; the other was a point of suspicion marked by the deceased. Between the two lay the same chasm. He opened his eyes; his gaze was now cold and clear. Gu Zhixing demanded the deletion of all speculation regarding "external information sources" and "elder influence." This explicitly blocked his path to probing Zhou Zhengping. The Shen family's sensitivity toward this retired old policeman far exceeded expectations. But in the email, Gu Zhixing had yet to reply to the probe about "historical incidents." Lu Chenzhou closed the email interface. The data extracted last night—those clippings about the Spark Chemical Plant accident, forum screenshots, scanned copies of the casualty list… every byte was already etched into his memory. Shen Yan was investigating the old chemical plant case. Shen Yan had noticed the missing pipeline worker, Li Guohua. Gu Zhixing forbade him from digging deeper into "external information sources." Three threads intertwined and collided in his mind. Gu Zhixing's prohibition precisely confirmed the importance of the "external information source" (Zhou Zhengping). And the old chemical plant case Shen Yan had been privately investigating clearly fell under the category of "historical incidents"—had Gu Zhixing not yet noticed this, or was he deliberately avoiding it? The heavy thumping of his heart gradually subsided, replaced by a colder, harder rhythm. Like an engine rumbling at low altitude. A preliminary judgment formed: Gu Zhixing, or rather the Shen family, was extremely vigilant and strictly guarded against Zhou Zhengping. But they might not yet realize that Shen Yan, before his death, had already extended his reach into the old chemical plant case and had touched upon the key name "Li Guohua." Zhou Zhengping. This silent, alcoholic, retired old policeman, who wrapped his pain in slovenliness, was abruptly pushed to the forefront of the plan. No longer a vague background figure, but a barrier that must be breached Lu Chenzhou looked at the line of text, the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. It wasn't a smile, but a cold arc of confirmation. Gu Zhixing's avoidance of "old matters" and his prohibition on "external sources of information" formed a perfect intertext. They wanted to seal Shen Yan's death into an isolated, internal, purely personal tragedy. Any thread attempting to link this incident to the broader context of older cases would be ruthlessly severed. His legal investigative path—that Shen Yan case report which could have served as cover, a means of indirect inquiry—had already been thoroughly castrated. But in his hand, he now held the key to the old case, left privately by Shen Yan. One door had been welded shut, but another window had quietly appeared in the darkness. Only, outside that window was no thoroughfare, but a steeper cliff. He turned off his phone screen and placed it face down on the desk. The movement was steady, without the slightest tremor. The sunlight had shifted further, illuminating the open notebook. There was no writing on it, only the deep and shallow indentations he had unconsciously pressed into the paper with his pen tip. His left hand rested on his knee, his index finger and thumb slowly, repeatedly rubbing an old thumbtack taken from the pen holder. The metal point pressed against his fingertip, transmitting a subtle, clear pain. Thinking was complete. Decision was made. Zhou Zhengping had to be contacted. Immediately, secretly, and through no conventional channel that might be monitored. He needed a new pretext. One that could be tied to the Shen Yan case investigation, yet naturally lead to Zhou Zhengping's area of expertise. His gaze swept over the bookshelf. Rows of professional books: criminal investigation, forensic science, criminal psychology… His eyes stopped on one thick, deep-blue yearbook. *Annual of Criminal Technology (2018-2022 Bound Edition).* He remembered that Zhou Zhengping, before retiring, had been one of the editorial board members for this authoritative yearbook. And Shen Yan's study also contained a set of the same yearbooks. A technical consultant, while analyzing the deceased's professional book collection, discovers questionable technical details and seeks advice from a former editorial board member—this pretext was as smooth as a river pebble, able to roll into any crack of scrutiny without getting stuck. He stood up, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled out that yearbook. The book was heavy. The deep blue cover was somewhat worn, but the gold-embossed lettering on the spine remained clear. He carried the book back to his desk, his fingers brushing over the sturdy glued seam of the spine. Then, from the pen holder, he took out the thin, willow-leaf-shaped paper knife—the tool he had used earlier to open the document pouch. The knife point pressed into the seam between the spine and the inner pages. He applied slight pressure. *** The red strikethrough on the screen was like a fresh wound. Lu Chenzhou stared at the few lines of erased text, his fingertips tapping lightly on the edge of the keyboard in a steady rhythm, though his knuckles were slightly white. The email sending progress bar completed, emitting an almost inaudible *ding*. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Gu Zhixing's reaction was faster than he had anticipated. Deleting the "Elder Influence" section meant the Zhou Zhengping thread had been explicitly marked as off-limits. That probing inquiry about "old matters" still hadn't received a reply—silence was an answer in itself. The vigilance against that name was now glaringly obvious. He opened his eyes, his gaze shifting to the other side of the desk, to the bulky old laptop. The screen was dark, but the ventilation grilles still retained a faint warmth. He needed ironclad evidence. Something that could nail two points in time, two unsolved cases, to the same stake. He sat up straight again, his fingers resting on the touchpad. The screen lit up, its blue glow illuminating his tense jawline. The interface of the offline database was stark, almost brutally simple. On the left was the electronic backup of his case file from seven years ago. On the right, the "Forum Archive" folder extracted from Shen Yan's tablet, crammed with discussion posts, scanned documents, and blurry photos about the Spark Chemical Plant accident. Lu Chenzhou clicked open a PDF named "Casualties & Missing Persons (Unofficial Compilation)." The list was long. His gaze slid downward, skimming past operators, technicians, safety officers… until the remarks column at the end. There, several lines of small, handwritten characters were scrawled in red ink. The handwriting was messy but forceful, the paper surface slightly indented by the pen tip: *Li Guohua, pipeline crew, on duty the day of the accident. His work badge (No. SH- He immediately pulled up the chapter on "key witness Li Guohua" from his own case file. That "Statement of Circumstances" was written flawlessly: "...Witness Li Guohua unfortunately perished in the Xinghuo Chemical Plant accident while cooperating with the investigation. His work badge (No. SH-0743) was recovered at the scene and confirmed by his family. Due to severe damage to the body making identification impossible, his death was presumed based on the work badge and statements from coworkers." Presumed. Two words, lightly erasing a person's life and death. Lu Chenzhou's left hand unconsciously reached toward the pen holder, touching that old thumbtack. His fingertips felt the metal's icy coldness. He pinched it and began slowly rotating it. The tack's sharp point pressed against his fingertip, bringing a sharp sting of pain. Same name? Same number? He opened the image folder in the forum archive. Most photos were blurry. He flipped through them one by one, quickly, his pupils contracting in the screen's blue light. Until that group photo taken before the accident. The photo had low resolution, the background a rusted array of chemical plant pipes, over twenty men in dark blue work uniforms standing in three rows. The edges of the photo were already yellowed and curled. Lu Chenzhou's gaze did not linger on those smiles. He stared at the far right corner of the photo. There, a man stood sideways, seemingly about to leave the frame, leaving only a small portion of his back and a blurry sliver of his profile. He wore the same uniform, a white rectangular card hanging from his chest. Lu Chenzhou zoomed in on the image. Zoomed in again. The pixels began to break down, turning into mosaic-like color blocks. But he didn't need to see the face clearly. He only needed to see that card. Work badge. White background, blue border. Two lines of text printed on it. The top line read "Xinghuo Chemical," the bottom line the number. The text blurred with magnification, but the shapes of the numbers remained. S... H... -... 0... 7... 4... 3. SH-0743. Lu Chenzhou's body froze. The fingers pinching the thumbtack suddenly tightened. The sharp point pierced his fingertip, oozing a tiny bead of blood. He didn't feel the pain. His entire consciousness solidified on that string of numbers on the screen. Seven years ago, the police used a photo of this work badge as evidence that Li Guohua was "already dead," blocking the final path for his case to be overturned. Seven years later, Shen Yan, in his secret investigation, found this image of the work badge's owner while he was still "alive." The timeline twisted, converged here, then collapsed with a crash. Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes, took a deep breath. His lungs expanded, the inhaled air carrying the scent of old paper and electronic equipment heat from the study. When he opened his eyes again, the ripples of shock in their depths had settled, leaving only a coldness like a deep pool. Not a coincidence. Could not be a coincidence. Shen Yan, for months before his death, had been secretly investigating the old Xinghuo Chemical Plant case. He had noticed Li Guohua, this "missing" key figure. Then, he died. And Li Guohua was precisely that witness in Lu Chenzhou's case from years ago who "happened" to "perish" at the crucial moment, breaking the chain of key testimony. The intersection point of the two cases was right here. Right on this small work badge printed with the number SH-0743. Ironclad evidence. Lu Chenzhou released the thumbtack. The bead of blood on his fingertip left a dark red dot on the desktop. He began operating swiftly: screenshot, placing the forum photo side-by-side with the work badge photo from his own case file, marking the area for number comparison. Encrypt, compress, save into a newly created folder. His movements were precise, rapid. But the blood vessels at his temples throbbed. An emotion mixed of immense shock and icy hope, like ice water poured from head to toe, sent shivers of cold through his entire body. Shen Yan's death was highly likely related to this. He had touched a string he shouldn't have. And that string was connected to the injustice Lu Chenzhou had carried for seven years. Lu Chenzhou saved all the files, disconnected the power of the old laptop. The moment the screen went dark, only the desk lamp's dim yellow halo remained in the study, casting his upright silhouette onto the bookshelf behind him. He must contact Zhou Zhengping immediately, in secret. On the third shelf of the bookshelf, the set of deep blue-covered "Annual of Forensic Technology" stood thick and silent. Lu Chenzhou's He returned to the desk and pulled open the drawer. A paper knife as thin as a willow leaf lay inside, its blade gleaming cold and hard under the desk lamp. He picked up the knife and inserted the tip into the gap along the book spine. The moment the glue was pried open, a pungent odor of old chemical agents mixed with the musty smell of decaying paper assaulted his nostrils. His movements were light, slow. Outside the window, the sky shifted from iron gray to a murky, pale white. He turned off the screen of the offline computer. The room was now lit only by the old desk lamp on the table, casting a warm yellow glow over a small patch of the desktop, plunging the surroundings into deeper shadow. He sat there, his back straight, not leaning against the chair. The two photos that had been side-by-side on the screen—the blurry old photo from the forum and the clear close-up of the work ID from the police evidence archive—were now gone. But that number, SH-0743, was branded onto his retina like a hot iron. He took a deep breath. The air was filled with the smell of old paper, dust, and the slightly pungent glue odor that had seeped out when he pried open the book spine. The scent reminded him of the tattered, repeatedly repaired legal compilations in the prison library. It reminded him of those endless nights. He opened his eyes. No emotion flickered in their depths, only a mechanical focus. To his left lay the opened set of "Annual of Forensic Technology" with dark green covers, seven volumes in total, their gold-embossed titles already faded. The top volume's spine had been pried open to reveal a narrow hidden compartment. To his right sat a miniature black USB drive, smaller than a fingernail, its metal shell reflecting a cold gleam under the light. The two cases had converged. Not speculation, but hard evidence. In the months before his death, Shen Yan had secretly returned to the edges of that fire from seven years ago. He had found Li Guohua. The key pipefitter who was "confirmed deceased" in official records and "dead without evidence" in Lu Chenzhou's case file. Why had Shen Yan investigated this? For his family? To clean up loose ends? Or had he sensed a darkness deep enough to overturn everything and tried to grasp a bargaining chip for his own survival? Lu Chenzhou didn't know. But Shen Yan was dead. Dead in a manner that was both "clean" and "reasonable." And Gu Zhixing, with his red deletion lines, had welded shut any possibility of Lu Chenzhou publicly investigating further. "Do not dig deeply into external connections." The directive was as clear as a guillotine blade. Lu Chenzhou picked up the miniature USB drive. A slight chill from the metal touched his fingertips. He had encrypted the forum screenshots, photo comparisons, key post summaries—all evidence proving the overlap between Shen Yan's investigative path and Li Guohua's identity—using his own multi-layered algorithm and saved it onto the drive. As the data was written, the USB indicator light flickered faintly a few times, like a dying heartbeat. He picked up the USB drive with tweezers, aiming it at the gap in the book spine. His movements were slow. His fingertips were steady, without the slightest tremor. He could hear his own steady yet deep breaths, the distant flush of a toilet, feel the slight warmth of the desk lamp's halo, and the subtle resistance as the metal edge of the USB drive pressed against the paper fibers. *Click.* A sound so faint, yet exceptionally clear. The USB drive slid perfectly into the depths of the hidden compartment, compressed and enveloped by the thickness and weight of the book. He released the tweezers, carefully pressing the pried edges of the book spine back into place. The glue's adhesion remained; the edges fit together almost seamlessly. Only by leaning in close and sniffing carefully could one faintly detect the newly exposed chemical scent. He picked up the annual, weighed it in his hand, and gave it a gentle shake. No unusual sound. The USB drive, like a shrapnel fragment embedded in flesh, had disappeared within the vessel of knowledge. The bargaining chips had changed. He was no longer an investigator cautiously searching for clues within the framework of Shen Yan's case. He now held ironclad evidence capable of twisting two parallel lines into a noose. Shen Yan's death and his own wrongful conviction seven years ago were now irrevocably bound together by the same missing "dead man," Li Guohua. But the path to the truth, even a superficially legal one, had been welded shut. His possibilities—submitting reports, leveraging official resources for indirect probing—had been castrated. His relationship with the Shen family had slid from restricted cooperation into more dangerous territory: he was now a clearly guarded "target," whose A plan took shape rapidly within the cold logic. The pretext was to analyze Shen Yan's book collection habits and professional focus, discovering that certain technical standards discussed in the yearbooks existed in a gray area that needed clarification concerning Shen Yan's unclear intentions before his death or remaining physical evidence. Under the guise of seeking professional advice, he would contact Zhou Zhengping. The consultation would be open, professional, and in service of the Shen Yan case investigation. As for how the conversation might "inadvertently" shift afterward to old acquaintances and past events, to dusty casualty lists and missing pipeline workers... that was the art of conversation, and a gamble with risk. He would visit a respected elder as the consultant hired by Shen Yan, bringing "work-related questions." And that elder would see a copy of the *Criminal Technology Yearbook*. A yearbook that might be "accidentally" opened to a certain page during their conversation, or perhaps "forgotten" at his home upon departure. Lu Chenzhou stacked the seven yearbooks neatly and returned them to their original place on the shelf. His movements were as ordinary as handling any inconsequential desk materials. After finishing this, he turned off the desk lamp. The room plunged completely into darkness. Only the faint glow of dawn from the city skyline outlined the blurred shapes of the window and furniture. He stood by the window, watching the gradually increasing car lights and human figures on the street below. Steam from breakfast stalls rose in the chilly air; the rhythmic, distant swish of a sanitation worker's broom sweeping the ground. It was an utterly ordinary morning. But Lu Chenzhou knew something had irrevocably changed. He had just hidden the first cornerstone of overturning the case within the spine of a book. He had just devised a plan that would push him completely to the edge of the cliff. He picked up his phone, pulled up a contact number he had never dialed before. The note read "Teacher Zhou." The number had been confirmed earlier through channels not easily spoken of. His thumb hovered over the call button for three seconds. Pressed. A long dial tone echoed from the receiver, once, then again, amplified unnervingly clear in the silent room. It rang seven times. Just as Lu Chenzhou thought no one would answer and prepared to hang up, the call connected. There was no immediate speech from the other side. Only heavy, slightly staticky breathing. Faintly in the background, the crisp clink of porcelain and the gurgling sound of liquid being poured. Lu Chenzhou spoke first, his voice steady, carrying just the right amount of respect: "Teacher Zhou? Sorry to disturb you. This is Lu Chenzhou." Silence on the other end for two seconds. The sound of pouring liquid stopped. A hoarse, slurred male voice, as if struggling out of a hangover, spoke with a thick local accent and undisguised wariness: "...Who?" "Lu Chenzhou," he repeated, slowing his pace further. "Currently a consultant hired by the Shen Group, responsible for investigating the accidental death of Young Master Shen Yan. There are some technical details I'd like to seek your advice on." "Shen Yan..." Zhou Zhengping's voice drew out, the tail end carrying an ambiguous, ruminating tone. "What does someone from Shen Yan want to ask a retired old good-for-nothing like me?" "Not about Shen Yan himself," Lu Chenzhou corrected, his wording as precise as a courtroom statement. "It's about some professional issues encountered during the investigation of Young Master Shen Yan's case. I noticed a set of *Criminal Technology Yearbooks* you participated in editing in Young Master Shen Yan's study. The chapter on the evolution of trace evidence extraction standards seems to have a puzzling connection to certain details of his behavior before his death. I thought perhaps only an editor who personally experienced the standard-setting back then could help me clarify." Silence. Longer this time. From the background came the *click* of a lighter igniting, followed by the sound of a deep inhale and a slow exhale. The smell of smoke seemed to transmit through the electric waves. "*Criminal Technology Yearbook*..." Zhou Zhengping finally spoke, the drunkenness in his tone seeming to dissipate somewhat, replaced by a weary sharpness. "That's all ancient history from years ago. The technology today has turned over how many new pages already." The room was plunged into complete darkness. Only the faint morning glow from the city skyline outlined the blurred shapes of the window and furniture. He stood by the window, watching the gradually increasing car lights and human figures on the street below. Steam rose from breakfast stalls into the chilly air, and the rhythmic, distant swish of a street sweeper's broom scraping the ground could be heard. It was an utterly ordinary morning. On the other end of the phone, Zhou Zhengping's breathing imperceptibly hitched for a moment. "...What do you want to ask?" His voice lowered. The clinking of porcelain sounded again in the background, as if he moved something aside. "Not in the game..." Zhou Zhengping murmured in a low voice, then let out a short, almost mocking chuckle. "Alright. Tomorrow at 3 PM. Old town district, 'Listening to the Rain' teahouse. Know the place?" "I know." "Just you alone." Zhou Zhengping's voice suddenly turned cold and hard. "No tails. No recording devices. I'm old, but my nose still works. If I catch a whiff of something off, I turn and leave immediately." "Understood." The call ended. The busy tone beeped in the silence. Lu Chenzhou set down his phone, his gaze returning to the *Criminal Technology Yearbook* on the bookshelf. Tomorrow at 3 PM. Old town district, "Listening to the Rain" teahouse. A retired old cop, a consultant bound by a ban, a book hiding ironclad evidence. A crack had been pried open. Now, he had to wedge himself inside.